Author of 5 books, AUDREY CHIN is a Singapore based writer and 2017 Fellow of the Iowa International Writing Program whose work explores the intersections of faith, gender, culture and politics. She has been nominated once for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize and shortlisted thrice for the Singapore Literature Prize. In 2016, she came out as a praying woman with her anthology of meditations, When Heart Meets Spirit. In the same year, her story Widow of Nain won the Inaugural Asian Women Writers’ Festival Short Story Prize.
Tiferet Day 23
Questions
where have we come from?
can’t you see we’re from nowhere?
isn’t it obvious, we belong to no one?
for who leaves who has something to stay for?
for who stays when no hope is left?
how is it we have come here?
can our reasons be told in less than a life?
can our silence contain the horrors?
where do we shelter?
do stones remember they once were houses?
can a road go home when there is no road?
do the tides have their own songs?
how do we move on?
—
Tiferet Day 22
Prose poem
She shoots blanks… Sends us pictures so white, we shudder. So much snow… Such people… There is her husband – All gleaming teeth. Her children – the black of their hair hidden inside white hoods. Little wolves! They romp on the lake in front of her house, little splatters, melting on an expanse of ice. “A beautiful day, the sky unbelievably blue, and snowy and cold at the same time,” she writes under the image. And then it is mid-summer. And she sends us her children again, their black eyes glinting behind the spun whites of sugar candy. Behind them, her hand – caught in a bear’s paw, her husband’s. “Celebrating white nights,” she announces.
They celebrated in the old days too, when the emperors sent their daughters to wed barbarians. See the scroll paintings telling all – the processions of pipers – the hordes of horses – the emptied treasuries of dowry. And there hidden by her attendants – the princess on her palanquin, behind her veils. A no-face princess we don’t see crying.
—
Tiferet Day 21
Window
beyond the grid of window screen
time-marked by dragonfly husks
from the summer past
the world is still
the river a black mirror
to a black sky
the poplars standing guard
armoured silver by the street lights
your footprints coming home
in the snow
—
A drowning
today I’ll step out
to breath fresh water
listen it in from behind my ears
like a gold fish
and drain the music from it
like how
I let hymns
seep into my marrow
blood
red
and deep
so very deep
today I’ll breath in water
spin out bubbles
swirl them towards light
bright
white
and so far
up
today I’ll close my eyes
and learn how to sleep
in the deep
the so very deep
—
20 alphabets and 3 characters
twenty alphabets and three characters
audrey – the abbess of ely
marie – a virgin
noble strength beside a sea of bitterness
慧 wei – the intelligence of a well-ordered heart
麗li – the beauty of deer moving in pairs
from
陳 chin – a city in the east
a mish-mashed name
witness to
the possibilities
of a mish-mashed world
—
Senses – 7 dwarf wishes plus 1
give us pretty not sour
beauty tart as envy
on the tongue
give us tumbled not sharp
splintering of mirror
in the heart
give us a deer panting
a girl running
give us ebony not wing of crow
give us cream of white not ice
give us roses blooming from snow
take back that choke of apple
tainted
give back our girl
alive
—
Random line from random book
“And that’s another problem with your generation! You’re always mysteriously dying! In my day, we remained alive, and that’s the way we liked it.”
On mosquitoes and synthetic biology – Soonish: 10 Emerging Technologies That’ll Improve and/or Ruin Everything, by Kelly and Azch Weinersmith
It used to be
slap / slap / slap
every night a massacre
and still always one left
whining in the dark
too quick to kill
what’s needed
something to subvert
those genes
intent on multiplication
one times one becoming
hordes
so geckos hunt in vain
chk / chk / chk
every night a famine
their prey taken
by a death wish
or so it’ll seem
—
Insomnia
dogged sirius sets
at eleven
and mercury rises at six
leaving the night between
for sleep
and
my lover
keeping watch
jealous I sleep so easy
wondering if I’m dreaming of him
watching me
watching
him
waiting
to follow a dream wraith
hitch a ride on a night mare
into domains
locked against him
by
sleep
—
3 haiku for Dalat
On the city steps –
day still unboxed, a boy sleeps
wrapped up in cold dreams.
In an upstairs room –
salt and silk, sweet flesh and tears
pounds sold by the hour.
By the lake’s edge
mimosa folded tight, hope
soon waking to light.
—
Outcast
if you bow to all the gods
theirs and ours
if you’re moved to give thanks
by the work of men’s hands
and hold all days sacred
whether labouring or at rest
if you call yourself child
of every father and mother
and the enemy
your sister and brother
then who are you for?
be with us or against
stand inside or aside
cast your lot as you should
or
be cast out
—–
I don’t dread
this vagabond life
of blood and curses
It’s the road back
and home without you
I can’t face
—
Anticipation
Air and water, earth and sky-fire
Nature I can’t buy
Treasure I can’t hire
Implanted inside this clockwork
City that never runs to ground
I can only count the hands circling, be a tally clerk
Praying, paying forward my hours
And watching the digits on my time-clock
Turning and turning, how i imagine sunflowers
In their season, wait for the light to
Open up their faces, and tilt them up to sky
Naked and unclouded, a never-ending blue
—
A song of the old country
in the old country
sông is a river
flowing
past memories
song sòng sóng
a song sung blue
half-tone slides
shifting vowels
only we
hear
song without accent – the windowblinds in the family house
sòng in a falling voice –a straight-talking man cut down
sóng with surprise – the waves that rose over us
sống – ố we didn’t die!
sổng – we escaped! we ran! we survived!
Here
sống is a new life
and
sồng is brown
the colour of a monk’s robes
and
song is the past
done with
the window blinds pulled shut
—
Before Lunch (2 cooks and the writer within)
at the last hour / before the mid-day meal
a decision – she’s been / cutting and slicing
at a lie, and for what? / white rice
a living? / a simple three veg and a meat
not / a meal
allowing for dreams / graced and beautiful
she tears up the words / the minutes
gifts / her sold hours
her life / a dedication
to the story / a work of art
—
Bird
strut off!
you barnyard brigand
you crow-master of chaos
we don’t need you to lay eggs
cock!
#hentoo
—
Glosa –
Body, my house
my horse, my hound
what shall I do
when you are fallen
- May Swenson
After they burnt the village
I had only the sky
as my country, and my
body, my house
After they burnt the village
I took to wandering
hunger and anger
my horse, my hound
After they burnt the village
I asked myself
how shall I live?
what shall I do?
After they burnt the village
I picked up a gun
I’ll stop shooting only
when you’re fallen
—
Something new
the new man
as pale as death
offered us
- a god
impaled on crossed twigs
white as a cave worm
rising like a cicada
singing from the dead earth
- a story
we swallowed
as unthinking as babes
guzzling new life
—
Bouquet in the sand
the bridesmaids were ticked
no bouquet toss I said
but later
when it was just the two of us
we did go out on the sand
and I threw the flowers over his head
and into the waves
not that she needed bud roses
where she’d gone
but he was hers
before I came and everything changed
and she walked into the waves
she ought to have them I said
and he’d agreed
as if forgiveness can be earned
with a bunch of flowers
we found them in the morning
tossed back on the sand
—
Silence
January
the lake frozen to stillness
the minnows whispering their secrets
bubbles under the ice
—
Autopsy
cut through her purpled body
with your scalpels
with two ave marias
as in holy mother
as in da ma de[i]
profanity and blessing
the only way
you can share
her one breath before
the silence after
the flame of your life
her glaring vacancy
a husband a wife
a marriage bed
a beating
his desperation
her whimpering
him done
her dead
you know all that
it’s recent
make a slight right down her torso
it’s recent
you can know more
how she struggled
if he spilled seed
what you can’t know
if the angels heard her
If the clouds parted
if she whispered ave maria
if she regained her self
—
Why am I Moving?
for whatever reason
a fly’s wings
will part air
two hundred times a second
even when hovering
a thing flies do
likewise
we all have our reasons
to keep on moving
but
is an unexamined life
worth living?
This is the Temporary Gym
this is the temporary gym
ticky-tack lockers that won’t unlock
machines and classes pushed against each other
too close for comfort
this is yoga rest and relax
on concrete outside in the heat
the mosquitoes and the flies buzzing
ready to feast
this is fight club
scheduled straight after
one woman and one instructor swiping at shadows
and the flies
still not ready to die
outside
on concrete
in the heat
—
Opposites
we face off
my north-west / your south-east
your dawn / my dusk
your noon / my midnight
your spring / my autumn
who is Ross McKie / Phillip Marley?
what does he mean by an acceptable time?
If we say April – what do we see
a thousand blossoms budding or the rust of fallen leaves?
where is common ground?
—
Dream sequence
something falls loose
like bone (from a socket)
like pearls ——- off —– a —– string
everything re-
turning to the sea
and nothing I can do about it as I wait
out of sorts and my neck bare
at the church
the bridegroom missed his flight. I’m marrying
a rooster-substitute. Running away
to retake my SAT’s. Applying for a grant
from A-Star. Doing star-jumps
by the sea
my Ph.D too heavy
for all this leaping through h00000ps
my
weight
.c.r.u.n.c.h.i.n.g..
_______________on
****** starfish
\\\ bones
and the waves
washing everything away
Outbreath
let go let go let go
what’s over is over
is done
like that candle
swaying in the last flicker of
night
air
like a sigh
leaving leaving leaving
Tiferet Day 25
Considering
sour fruit tree
wild boys won’t
climb
blue birds won’t
plunder
who plucks you
now
no one cooks
sour fish stew
sambal shrimp
fry
now
no one eats
puckery
grandma food
faded but
still too tart
Tiferet Day 26
Ending in a swerve
more than two hams
are hogging media
this week
the french and american
kissing up a nuclear storm
the two Koreans
holding hands
and the great dragon and the yogi
fighting to give way
as if anyone of them
doesn’t have a dagger
an offering of tainted ginseng
a doctored handkerchief
caviar gone off
a recording device
somewhere
inside those Nehru jackets and Mao collars
in their elevator shoes and toupees
up the you know whats
of their trophy wives
and then treachery
in that mini multi second
the cameras
swerve
Tiferet Day 27
a tribute to those girls who dared to speak out and run – nouns only and then long lines
summer
sand-flies
seagulls
salt
sand
stench
beach
boat
borders
betrayal
bodies
bones
she set out towards the sea – beautiful and bold
armed with birthday blessings, health and happiness and fire
in her heart and on her skin a flame
the sun turning above her like a gyre
they say this is how martyrs start – foolish and sure
blinded by the light of mission, led on unheeding through muck and mire
till their feet are sucked down ankle deep
the seagulls calling overhead like town criers
she stopped where we knew she’d end – spent
washed up fly-blown and bloating, wrists and ankles bound with wire
sea salted sand grated daylight bleached
the sand-flies gathering like vultures for hire
Tiferet Day 28
an ode after Pindar Olympia 11
for the poet of Pandan Valley Sleeping-In on a Saturday (April 2018)
there is a time when a women’s need
for air-conditioning is greatest
and a time for black-outs in the room
to simulate the comforting blanket of night.
but when anyone has overcome
through sheer sleepiness,
then let this whispered lullaby accompany
even more lay-ins,
and mark undying hope for even greater resistance
against those wretched morning folks.
this commendation is dedicated to late risers, without irony.
Still although my keyboard yearns to praise such hard-won slumber;
it is as with so much else, by the gift of pharmacy, ever-useful Silenor,
that a woman can lie abed without a thought
for the quotidian of her day’s demands.
For the present, obviously, O poet of the Pandan Valley Residence,
For the sake of your determined slumber, let us quietly hum
this little tune, a soothing second to the melody in your dreams, while
we give thanks for the fore bearance of the neighbours, who do not condemn
such sloths as you and indeed, join in this our celebration.
And so we all promise that we shall all strive for an extra ten minutes,
even two hours, intervals as are convenient to anyone. And in that time
and in a suitable space, engage in a slumber so deep, we will emerge,
well slept and more rested than ever. For sleep is needed by all living things.
And we humans and beasts are not apart from nature.
Tiferet Day 29
a conversation
its awfully whooshy – she says
immensely ginormouse – he says
it’s the sea – I tell them
the sea – they echo
where fishes live – I say
lots of fishes – she agrees
lemme see – he says, pushing
and then – I don’t see no fish
peevish
how he is
they’re underneath – I explain
adding –in the deep
hoping
they’ll believe
she asks – and will Goldie be happy there?
and god forgive me
I say – yes
I say – she’ll have lots of friends
he asks – as many as in playgroup?
adding – a gazillion?
even if he doesn’t know
10 from 20
and I say – yes
and I pray he’ll never stick his head down there to count
the difference
and I pray she’ll never dip her finger in and lick the salt
goldfish can’t swim in
living or dead
and I pray – god, let’s be done with
before my memories wash up
in waves I can’t stop
heaving as in those first months
I carried them
seasick towards the horizon
heaving as she tilts the fishbowl over
and they say – bye bye
and tell me
– it’s goldfish heaven
– down there
Tiferet Day 30
fare well
there are no farewells
for those taken
by flood
by fire
for those vanished
on a nameless night
for those who dreamed away in flight
from their feathered beds
or were surprised by shock
as their hands were cut off mid-thought
in the middle of mid-morning
small-talk
they must do the best they can
fare well is only for those of us
whose lives go on
dotting the lines _ or not as the case may be
turning the pages
closing the books
may you fare well
as you move on
move around
and be brought around
again
by the great world
turning